It’s no different now that the word is out, there’s no difference now that the moon remits its luminescence, the sky still too blue to know which wanderers at last align with your precious sentience which shape at last you grant. So strange how these horizons move and apexes hold, the turning of heavens, the tickings of the earth. A shadow pressed like a flower, the arc of the beckoning and the bloom. The sun tips its hat, the stretch of light heralding in the incarnate dusk, this old whisper of synapse and signal. Oh this meat and bone.
I slept through most of the last unmasking, catching the embodied moon staring through my curtains a few days ago, turning my back to the archetype as if I had a choice. I dream dark and drear, sleeping in self defense. Too much less and less all at once, I say because this is yet another saying. Spells cast from the twitching lips of the flesh in fever, oaths burned into smoke smudged across the dancing winds. Will you go to your window? Will you reach for your pen? I sit in this long drag of last light and hard fall, neither now or again. Hungering depths and tasks unmet, all roll and no bet.
This want of moon, this wish of work towards intention, all the yammering of a heart that knows the number. To attend to the missed moment, to turn the corner of the labyrinth and find the exit sign in neon relief. To step off the carousel with the ride completed, loosed from the pain and ache of the fail and fall. Some slice of wonder witnessed, some sense that there was a moment of intersection, a right shared in the way of things. Instead the wind rises to the spirit of general heckling and ridicule, a sentiment parsed in heaps of numb symbols, hope huddled up in a corner.